


praxis

by ruedesgres (smithens)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Class Issues, Education, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 02:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/ruedesgres
Summary: A few days in the life of Feuilly.





	praxis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bobcatmoran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobcatmoran/gifts).

> far more conceptual than the prompt implies, but i hope you enjoy this treat anyway! ♥

He hung up his apron at a quarter past seven, after extinguishing the lamp and gathering up his brushes and wood tools.

The door to the clerk's desk was closed, and had been for an hour or so since the master left, but it was uneven on its hinges and Feuilly could see the tell-tale flicker of a candle, so he knocked.

Twice, with no response, and then four times in rapid succession. 

It opened.

The clerk had ink smudged across his cheekbone and half-lidded eyes — today was a late day for both of them, and a difficult one, too. He stared at Feuilly with hollows in his cheeks.

"My wages, Monsieur."

"Right, right, yes, certainly," and he darted with nervous energy to the desk, pulled a key from his breast-pocket, and fidgeted with the till box.

"Are you not going to review my work, Monsieur —"

The clerk waved his hand dismissively. "That is done, quite done with." His voice was reedier than usual. "Very well, then, this is it."

In the blink of an eye he was back at the doorway to drop a fistful of coins into Feuilly's hand. 

He counted them calmly. Yesterday he'd been given two francs and one sous when it ought to have been two and eighty five — swiftly amended, but awkward for both of them, and moreso for those behind him waiting as well.

Today he was the last to leave.

Today there was another mistake, and one that would be far more dishonorable to take in stride. More quarter pieces than was typical and some extra sous.

"Sir, this totals three francs and seventy."

The clerk looked up at the ceiling and muttered some numbers.

"It is too much," Feuilly prompted. "I — I expected three even."

Despite the length of the day, his production did not much change. He was tired; the woodwork was complex; in the morning his hand had cramped and he'd splattered paint on some silk.

Three even might have been too generous a calculation, given the waste of materials.

"No, no, three and seventy, you said? That is right." 

Feuilly frowned.

"Do forgive me, Monsieur, but — it is so that you have had a long day, and I presume must be rather tired. I have not earned this, and I —" 

...shall be held responsible for your mistake?

Inappropriate.

He faltered.

Again the clerk scrambled to the desk, where he began to sort frantically through receipts and envelopes.

"No, no, no, I have a word from the master, see, there is no mistake, that is yours. Dear me! If I had made two mistakes, and in two days, why! — ah, here you are. " He held out a crumpled piece of paper, which detailed in no uncertain terms the day's pay: the extra was comprised of a generous tip from the week's primary customer (Madame so-and-so, the responsible party for his hand cramp, Feuilly noted to himself). Even the silk was accounted for. "You will see that the arithmetic is sound."

"Right. I beg your pardon, Monsieur, and, please pass on my gratitude." 

The clerk nodded.

"Good evening, then," said Feuilly after a substantial pause, and he jammed his hat upon his head and made his way out.

* * *

By all rights he ought to have kept it all in his coin purse and then in his lockbox for when the time would come, but it was unexpected, and unexpected money was always easy to squander. To him it was a boon; to his benefactress it was pocket change.

His preferred bookseller was closed, for supper was soon.

Supper — he could dine out.

No, for one of his roommates had planned to buy and share fish for the evening, and he could neither turn down the generosity nor be complicit in its spoiling, so he turned his head from the boulangeries and gargottes as he walked home.

The young chimney sweep for his tenement was engaged in drawing out the alphabet in the dirt when he arrived: his Greek Is were backward and his Ms and Ns indistinguishable, but this was extraordinary progress. Of course, he was yet to be able to sound them all, but he knew what they looked like. 

Reveling in his own extravagance and heartwarmed by the scene before him, Feuilly tossed him one of the extra quarter-pieces on his way up.

And just as he'd made it to the door a small hand grabbed at the back of his smock.

"Mister Feuilly, this is a silver one, m'sieur, that's not right, is it?"

For that remark Feuilly was prone to dump the rest of his purse into the boy's hands, but rationality and pragmatism saved him.

"It is right for today," he said, crouching enough to meet his eyes.

"But yesterday —"

"How much did I give you last time?"

He twisted the coin around in his fingers, wide-eyed.

"One sous, m'sieur."

"And that," Feuilly poked at the piece, "that is more."

"Lots more."

He felt a twinge of regret at his lack of frugality, but swallowed it.

"Is it? You are looking at the color. There is a number, there."

Numbers they had made quicker progress with. He could spare a few minutes of his evening to further it.

He flipped it over, searched the reverse of the coin for a moment, then brightened. "_ Fourteen _ sous!"

"Er."

...not that much progress. "It's twenty-five centimes, child."

Feuilly did not have the heart to explain that this was significantly less than fourteen sous.

"But it says —"

"Yes, I know. It's… I'll explain it eventually. It is _ worth _ twenty-five centimes, and it _ reads _ one - four."

"Twenty-five centimes!" came the reply, a little delayed, but with even more excitement than before. 

"And that is the same as five sous."

The boy gripped the coin in a fist with one hand and counted on his fingers with the other.

"Four more than last time. I could buy a whole loaf of bread, couldn't I, m'sieur?"

_ If only. _

"It's mine? Truly?"

Feuilly was not looking forward to when he would have to return to doling out only centimes. It had been a good month, if an exhausting one; even one sous was out of the ordinary.

"You must share the money with your sister," he said sternly, but he ruffled the child's hair as he did so. He straightened up. "And your mother and father. Run along."

He received a hug instead of a "thank you", which was perhaps a better show of gratitude.

* * *

By the time he'd washed up and changed his clothes (his shirt was now decorated with sooty hand-prints) the rest of them were already halfway through their meal.

"Good Christ, man, where have you been?"

"You were out by seven this morning, wasn't it?"

Feuilly sat at the space left for him, quickly murmured his grace, and began to serve himself some bread; Bidois, who'd spoken first, received a gentle swat from his wife, Marie. "Don't speak so at the table," she said. 

"Carving fan sticks all day, where else might I be?" 

In unison: 

"The bookstore."

"The hospital."

"That society of yours."

"Only at work," replied Feuilly, "as the rest of you." 

Fournier passed him the platter of fish; Martinaud the bottle of wine. Anne, the wife of the former, gave him a bit of cheese, and for a few minutes they allowed him to eat and spoke only amongst themselves.

The food was delicious, and he had not noticed his hunger until a full plate was before him.

"Long day, then," said Bidois, and Feuilly only nodded, for he'd taken too large a forkful of aubergine.

After he'd chewed and swallowed: "We are trying to fulfill a private commission ahead of schedule, but the longer I work it seems the less I accomplish." 

"Under your republic all men will be paid by the hour, eh?"

Marie swatted him again.

"In fact the customer tipped." He picked a bone out of the fillet with his fork, avoiding eye contact.

Fournier let out a low whistle. "A high honor. They'll make a bourgeois of you yet. How much?"

"Enough that I've already spent some."

"So you _ were _ at the booksto —" 

"I was at the studio until after seven. I spent it on Charles."

"Explains the smut on that shirt of his when he came in," said Anne under her breath to Marie, and Feuilly smiled at her sheepishly. She turned pink. 

"He doesn't yet understand how a sous is worth more than a centime, but he can tell that silver is better than copper."

"Oh, my goodness, Joseph, you couldn't have!"

"Soft-hearted!"

"That's a funny way of saying opulent."

He stabbed at his fish. He did not want to regret this expenditure, but it was true that it had been rather impulsive.

"His mother is engaged with caring for his father and his sister makes hardly a half-franc per day. It will be more useful to them than to me. If it keeps food in their mouths, it was a quarter well spent."

This was enough to induce a change of subject, but still, Martinaud was shaking his head.

Feuilly sipped at his wine to avoid further argument. 

The rest of the meal passed amicably. They spoke of Fournier's new apprentice, the goodness of the wine, the meal the Bidois couple had taken at the home of a coworker, Feuilly's trials in speaking Greek, Martinaud's trials in reading French, the price of a second-hand bassinet —

The food was good, and the company was better. He had been blessed with excellent neighbors.

As supper concluded Marie stood to take up plates and dishes, and a bit later Fournier and his wife retired, owing to "the baby" — who had yet to be brought into the world, but who had such influence that Anne had spent many of the upper floors' shared evenings complaining about letting out her dresses. 

He was a limner, paid the best of all of them, and she a vellum binder, but due to resign soon enough; their room was directly below Feuilly's own.

He thought to give the two of them something as thanks for the meal later, and made an internal note of it.

Marie returned shortly after the other couple had gone down, now wearing an apron and cap. "Julot, dear, I'm out to fetch water, I neglected my laundering to prepare the aubergine — no, no, you needn't accompany me, _ I'm _ not with child, sit down. Joseph, speaking of — " (both Feuilly and Martinaud looked to her expectantly) " — ah, the elder, do take the leftovers with you tomorrow, there is some in the tian. I've left it upstairs; it's cold enough tonight it oughtn't spoil." 

Bidois sat as instructed, but not before capturing her in his arms and kissing her cheek.

When she'd gone, he poured them all more wine.

"Gentlemen."

"To your health," said Martinaud, and they drank. 

Now that the women were absent, Feuilly set his elbow upon the table and rested his chin against his fist; the other two followed with similar breaches of etiquette. Still, no one seemed to know what to say.

He took a deep breath. It was then or never. "_That society of mine _ is meeting informally at the Corinthe on Thursday, quarter to nine. Our side of the river. The place is off Saint-Denis, not too bad a walk."

"And?"

"And I'd like to see you both there. Fournier has sworn off politics for the next two years, and I shan't blame him, but — "

"Feuilly, I'm a republican in theory, not in practice," said Martinaud. "Half the workshop's been dismissed or replaced in the last year — "

"Owing to tariffs, not to political activity —"

"_And if I'm arrested _ , they'll have no trouble finding a girl eager to work for a fraction of what I make to take over for me. There are tens of them about every Monday. I don't come in one morning? Sacked, just like that, and Jeanne of thirteen years or whoever has my place at the table because she can stitch straight and won't ask for what she's worth, which is _still _ half the wage of a proper journeyman. No. That is not a risk I am willing to take. Some things aren't worth starving for." 

This was not an irrational fear, but the final sentiment irked him.

Still he could not argue, and Martinaud knew it. Feuilly's line and place of work required more skill up-front, and his station was less precarious. One night in jail would not see him on the streets, and if it ever did — well. He'd the experience for manuscripts and wood carving alike, knew men in both trades, and would not need much further training to earn a similar wage in either.

Martinaud could sew and form buckram neatly and with speed; he was paid well owing to working for an establishment which manufactured uniforms, but a capmaker would not earn such a wage elsewhere.

"Jules?"

"Well, Joseph is wrong. If it were '87, do you think we'd have all sat down to a meal like that? If the cost of bread could change at the whim of a merchant, how often would we go hungry? And forty years on, there is poverty still, we are straining our hands and eyes to craft all day for a paltry wage. Men break their backs in the fields and the quarries, and we who are the foundation of this country have no say in anything. It _ is _ a cause worth starving for," he said, shifting back and forth in his seat. "Worth dying for, even."

There was bound to be a contradiction, Feuilly knew, and he supposed he would have done better not to expect acquiescence from either of them. Of the people he lived with Bidois had always been the most ardent, politically. But.

"But," he continued. "It isn't worth letting _ Marie _ starve. It isn't worth making a widow. Nothing is. You're young — yes, _ both _ of you, not only Feuilly, don't roll your eyes — self-preservation is worthy, as is idealism, but when the lives of others are at risk… by all means exercise your own rights, be part of a group of nineteen and a half, change the nation, take your say by force, but I'll be putting food on my table and wood in my fireplace."

"I understand," murmured Feuilly.

"You couldn't yet possibly, and that's no fault of your own. You've done a remarkably good job managing your affairs and then some. There are boys in our workshop who wouldn't recognize their own name if it were written in front of them; hell, half of them don't care to; they can feed themselves regardless."

A sentiment which Feuilly had often heard and never empathized with. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it; _ think before you speak_, he thought, _ recall your company_. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead.

"I never cared to until I could," said Martinaud quietly. Feuilly looked up at him; he downed the rest of his wine glass and averted his eyes. "Names, street signs, items and prices. Headlines. A man who can read and write is secure against swindling. You won't find me reading one of his books any time soon," he pointed his thumb at Feuilly, "but there are words everywhere. The more a man sees them, the more he knows them. Couldn't sign my damn name a year ago, neither, but I can now. All thanks to someone."

He met Feuilly's eyes, then, and they shared a moment of recognition. There was a pause; Bidois seemed unwilling to interrupt.

"The republicans — students, are they?"

Feuilly straightened. "Most of them."

"What are they up to over here, then?"

"Trying to get more folks like you in with their lot," said Bidois, but he smiled; the comment was good-natured.

"Folks like us," corrected Martinaud. "I've heard of the place. The wine is bad, isn't it — odd choice."

"There is a restaurant on the upper floor," said Feuilly. He'd only been a few times; it had often been more worth his time to make the trek to the Café Musain. Until the last few months the Corinthe was considered for the most part a place to socialise, for talking politics was risky in an unknown neighborhood. But it was nearer to Feuilly's lodgings, and to that of several others; owing to this it had undergone a gradual conversion from a place to dine and gamble to a place to dine and cabal. (And still to gamble.) It was only recently that they had begun to schedule appearances. "The fish is good. Never had anything like it." 

"The fish."

"Stuffed carp. I'll take you to supper one night, if you like."

"You and your tips. In the course of a day you've become extravagant."

"But the fish is beside the point," Feuilly continued hurriedly, "when there is work to be done. Listen, I know you've said you — of course there are things one cannot afford to lose, of course there is a risk, but you — both of you — there will always be a place for you with us. I'll make sure of it."

There was a short rap at the door, and Marie swept in again with a basket on her hip.

Bidois stood and clapped Feuilly on the shoulder. "We'll see," he said kindly. "Fellows, I'm afraid we're turning you out for the night. Sleep well, and work a little less tomorrow, eh?" This with a stern look to Feuilly.

"Thank you for hosting," said Martinaud. He took Feuilly by the elbow, and together they went up to their room.

* * *

The next morning Antoinette met him at his door.

"Good morning," he said in surprise, and she interrupted him with, "we cannot accept it, Feuilly, Monsieur," holding out the quarter from yesterday.

He folded her fingers back over it.

"You brother did already," he said gently. "And I must go to work."

"Mother says it isn't right. She says you work hard to earn your wage, and we mustn't ask hard working men for handouts. You are always very kind to us, but — "

"I certainly was not asked," replied Feuilly, and as he began to walk she followed him down the corridor to the stairway. "It was a gift. Sometimes hard working men do not eat all they earn."

"Oh, surely you do not earn _ that _ much."

She was ten, but had the wit of a young woman.

It was true, of course, most days of the year.

"Pardon me, that was... discourteous."

The word seemed new on her tongue.

"How are your letters coming along?" he asked. The question would not distract her for long, but he wished genuinely to know the answer.

She stopped walking abruptly and shifted back and forth on her feet, shy.

"Very well," she said. "Madame gave me a children's bible."

"That was very generous," returned Feuilly, and he offered her his hand.

She accepted it, and they continued. 

"I am reading it to Charles. I let him say the small words."

"The small words!"

"_'Un'_ and _'Dieu'_ and _'le'_ and _'dit'_. He is learning very quickly."

"You are both very studious."

"Other families pay to receive lessons, don't they?"

He sighed.

"I shan't take it back, Toinon." They fell in step on the way down, her wooden shoes clunking as she hurried to maintain his pace. "I insist. Tell your mother and father that I am heartened by their concern for my finances, but it is for Charles and the rest of you to do with as you require."

The girl brightened. "Oh, she did beg me to give it back, but — "

"But it will be useful," he said for her. They were at the door to the street. "Money is like that. When I was a boy, I had help sometimes, too. There is never any shame in needing help, as long as you pass it along when you can. Yes?"

"Yes." She grabbed a fistful of petticoat and curtseyed; he tilted his cap.

As he left the building, she was ushered in to the scullery for the apartment on the ground floor.

They both had work to do.

* * *

The day passed uneventfully: no cramps, no cuts, no spills, and no extra coins — but no extra hours, either. 

Joly met up with him at the Quai de Gesvres, and they crossed the bridge for Île de la Cité together as a conspicuously contrastive pair.

"Oh, your life is like a story in a ladies' magazine," said Joly, when Feuilly had finished telling him of the prior day's events. "An honorable artisan, a wealthy benefactress, a hale dose of charming and half-literate children —"

"I think the benefacting was a one-time affair," replied Feuilly, but he smiled. Joly was a man good-natured enough that he could only take the comment as a kindness. "Besides, an 'honorable artisan' of _ La Mode Parisienne _would, I'm sure, turn out to be a duke under the veneer of fanmaker —"

"Why, no! No duke could be an honorable man! There, you have altered the genre, it's a gothic novel now," and their small-talk and jesting carried them all the way to the Latin Quarter. 

They had time to spare at their leisure. Students seemed to keep a schedule wholly unlike that of the rest of the city; although Feuilly had been among students for … almost years, now, he had not yet become accustomed to it.

Well. Joly, of course, was busy; his coursework was demanding physically and intellectually. As for the rest of their friends and acquaintances, however, Feuilly could not imagine how he might spend his free hours if all that was required of him was to attend occasional lectures. (And among most of his companions, even attending lectures was too much to ask.) Alas, it was no use imagining, for his longing should never come to be.

But he could have a taste: Joly intended to share with him a bookshop he often frequented, and they were stopping by on their way to the Musain. 

"A little hole in the wall," he was saying, and he rubbed the head of his cane against his nose. "About a year ago I chanced upon an old volume of Haüy there — oh, he was — "

"Abbé and mineralogist," said Feuilly quickly, as though he were being tested, "who developed the kilogram? Combeferre spoke of him once — "

"Oh? Funny, that he did! I bought the volume. For me, his writing thoroughly clarified the work of Ampère and Arago, and when read alongside Mesmer — well. I daresay it has all changed my life and health for the better. Of course being thus improved I lent the book and my notes to Combeferre, but alas! he has not yet returned them. No matter, the knowledge is where it needs to be." 

He tapped his temple. Feuilly thought this was charming, and laughed at him.

"You know, I daresay that Enjolras would have a wholly different opinion of Haüy, though I am sure that Combeferre speaks highly of him. His politics do not affect his science, however!"

On that they perhaps would disagree: science was not immune to the influence of politics, indeed they oft went hand in hand. But Feuilly did not know enough about René-Just Haüy's political opinions to hold his own in a discourse.

He realised too late that his pensive silence was awkward.

"...um, anyhow, I have been in to this place often since that first day. The proprietor is quite accommodating."

"That is very good," replied Feuilly. Joly gave him a sheepish smile, which he returned.

They did not know one another well, but Feuilly hoped they would come to — Joly seemed to him intelligent, kind, happy and honorable, and one would be hard pressed to find a similarly esteemable set of traits in another man.

They entered the shop in amicable silence.

"Monsieur Joly! And Monsieur Joly's friend!"

And he was an excellent judge of character: the bookseller embraced him upon his arrival, shook Feuilly's hand with nary a glance at his shabby dress. 

"You will be so pleased — just the other day an old gentleman came in with an armful of age-old medical journals! Of course I set them aside…"

Feuilly nodded at what he thought was an attempt at an apologetic glance from Joly, who had too much light in his eyes at the prospect of outdated science to truly feel guilty for focusing on himself — but Feuilly hardly minded. He would never begrudge another man for caring about his own enlightenment.

Besides, he could fend for himself. There was an assistant, and if he stayed a little too close for comfort, well, that was to be expected. 

The shop was mostly textbooks, baccalaureate writings, readers, but every so often on a shelf there was something of an entirely different theme, and yet somehow not out of place. He saw a familiar name on a stack labeled LETTERS AND HUMANITIES REQUISITES, and began to scan; this led him to continental texts, to classics. Homer, Plato, Herodotus, Apollonius, and more, tomes both new and old, but this was not quite what he sought.

Feuilly met the eye of the assistant, who looked nervously at the front counter before approaching. 

"Good day," he said, "I'm looking for works in Greek."

"You've found them."

"I — "

He was not prepared for the sharpness of the look he received. "Yes, I see that I have," he conceded, "but — I — have you anything in the _ modern _language?"

"You want to read modern Greek."

"Or Italian," hurried Feuilly, attempting geniality. "Or Greek and Italian. Solomos, or, or, Foscolo, Vilaras — contemporary authors — "

The man raised his eyebrows.

"Have we any Greek authors?" he called to the front.

The shopkeeper started, and Joly whipped around. 'Greek,' he mouthed to Feuilly; Feuilly shrugged.

* * *

They entered the backroom through the alleyway at the Rue de Grès, Joly with a stack of water-damaged soft-cover journals in his arms, Feuilly with one stray imported Italian novel within his haversack. There was much the rest of his gratuity expended.

"It suffices," he said of the book as he held the door open for Joly.

"A pity there was not anything else," Joly replied.

"I did not expect there to be."

Joly looked at him a little sadly. "And in doing so avoided disappointment, perhaps, but there is something to be said for the joy of anticipation, isn't there?"

"Not when it never bears fruit," said Feuilly. 

They were each beckoned over to separate tables, and so the conversation ended there.

* * *

Jean Prouvaire and Enjolras walked him home, despite his insistence that he would fare well on his own. 

In truth he had only insisted he depart alone out of some sense of social obligation; he was glad to have the company. Though it was still summer, the days were growing shorter, and Feuilly did not enjoy nightfall.

"Why not?" enquired Jean Prouvaire at this admission. "In the city — light from God turns to that of man. We seek to surpass that which we have been given. In the country, one cannot be discontented, for he is illuminated by the moon and stars. Only now, in so industrial a place, is a harvest moon a hindrance rather than a blessing. Oh! I do understand, in fact. Fear nightfall all you see fit."

"It is not that I am afraid," said Feuilly slowly. "Only unsettled."

The click of cane against cobblestone was an unfamiliar sound, so close. 

They passed a lamplighter. Feuilly nodded to him, Enjolras tipped his hat, but Jean Prouvaire was gazing upward and outward, taking in what little they could see of the sunset through the nooks and crannies of residence buildings. 

"Prouvaire sees art in all things," said Enjolras at last, in a tone which was not unkind but neither indicated full comprehension. "If we are speaking of light, what is natural is of the most utility, but it wavers: clouds, smoke, and darkness impose limits. When man developed flint, oil, and steam, he developed control. The environment conquered by man; the ground leveled. If only all could access it. If only there were such a tangible invention for immaterial ills."

"If only," echoed Feuilly. It was the sentiment of the week.

"It is just as we discussed today," said Prouvaire. "Artificial light did not change the world overnight, and neither can we. I am inclined toward Combeferre. It is the children who have the most power, and yet for their use of this power we must credit their tutors. Upbringing characterizes the hue of the nation. And toward you, Feuilly! The continent is defined as well by her children."

"A - B - C," Enjolras added, "is not a cover so much as a method."

Feuilly smiled. 

By the time they arrived at his building he felt dead on his feet; he opened the alley door with some reluctance nonetheless. It was always difficult to part with friends.

"You do good work, Feuilly," murmured Enjolras into his ear. "We will see great things from you."

From another man this might have seemed a nerve wracking expectation; from Enjolras, it was a simple honor, a fact as plain as the cobblestones and dirt beneath their feet.

Jean Prouvaire was suddenly shy.

"I do what I can," said Feuilly to both of them. Enjolras lightly squeezed his upper arm. There was still enough light to see him smile.

They parted.

He rose the staircase to his rooms with weary feet, and was relieved to find that Martinaud had fallen asleep already — he was not in the mood for chatter.

His tools, his purse, his book all came from his bag to their rightful places. In the morning he would wake and go about his day as per usual. For now, he could sleep, process, comprehend; he realised that in all of the deviations from his normal routine he had not allowed his mind to rest.

But he could, now, think about his quarter, about the Greek alphabet, about the paint beneath his nails and the soot on his work shirt and children's bibles and traditional aubergine dishes, of signatures and street-signs, of opportunities given and taken.

He laid his head upon his pillow and fell asleep.


End file.
